


The Memoirs of Tarre Vizsla

by Tulak_Hord



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: A few puppies might have been harmed in this production, Blatant Manipulation, Compassionate Jedi, Death & Torture, Gen, Harsh Teaching Methods, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Pre-Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Sacrifice and Consequence, The Fall of the Old Republic, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), The Sith Empire, There is also one Evil Jedi Master in this, Timeline: About just before 1100 BBY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tulak_Hord/pseuds/Tulak_Hord
Summary: Or alternatively, 'Ashes of a Cold Flame'.The tale of Tarre Vizsla, Jedi Master and Mand'alor, and the trials he overcame during the Sith Wars and the fall of the Old Republic.(Rated for violence, torture, psychological manipulation and a few tragic themes in general)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	The Memoirs of Tarre Vizsla

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How a Romance Novel Saved the Galaxy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331213) by [Ariana Deralte (ArianaDeralte)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArianaDeralte/pseuds/Ariana%20Deralte). 



> To say that this was inspired by 'How a Romance Novel Saved the Galaxy' would be a bit of a falsehood. While I indeed owe credit to Ariana Deralte for the idea of Jocasta Nu translating Tarre Vizsla's memoirs, as well as narrowing down the timeline, the themes portrayed in that tale are as different as can be from those of this one. 
> 
> 'How a Romance Novel' is a rather light-hearted, hopeful tale with the promise of happiness, while this one... is not. It also has very little to do with Romance, and far more to do with trials, tribulations and Sith nastiness in general. With that out of the way, read on if you will.

**_THE MEMOIRS OF TARRE VIZSLA_ **

[as translated and annotated by Master Jocasta Nu, Head Archivist of the Jedi Order, 956 ARR]

* * *

**PREFACE**

_To whomever it may concern;_

_This text is written with the solemn understanding that it should never have come to being written, nor recorded in any way apart from memory. I shall proceed with the knowledge that whoever engages in the perusal of the forthcoming does so in good faith, as I leave this document in the care of posterity only for the sake of my goodwill to the Jedi Order, which is my home, Clan Vizsla, which is my family, and the people of the Haat Mando’ade, who are my salvation._

_I claim to nothing; I wish to ‘turn’ none, nor convince anyone of any form of enlightenment I might have gained through my trials. I record here truth; cold, hard truth alone- for one can never underestimate the value of truth in any matter of causality. I expect nothing; no much-vaunted claims to ‘understanding’ or ill-considered thoughts of vengeance. As I pass, I wish it known that I do in thanks and in debt to the Jedi Order, and in firm stride with the traditions of my people._

_My will has but one clause: that I should not be the last of my kind, not the last Mandalorian Jedi or the Last Jetii Mand’alor. Bound together, our might is strengthened fourfold- and as such I wish there to be no reckless strife between the Order and Mandalore- for as history has proved, we are all the worse for it._

\- 

[Here follows a discourse of some length by Master Vizsla, on the qualities of a good leader, and of what it means to be a good Jedi and a good Mandalorian. The party assigned to review the document wishes it known that the similarities were striking, and posed many practical deductions on various aspects of the will of the Force.

In the opinion of this translator, the passage on the importance of history, that of learning from the past instead of mimicking it, should be presented to Master Yoda, and by extension, the older masters of this Order. The passage on the importance of compassion and humility in all things I recommend to a certain Master who shall not be named- one who shall invariably read this document once when it is published. All in all, it shall with some shame be admitted that of the entire Order, only Masters Windu, Tyvokka and Plo Koon have been found in possession of these qualities of a Good Jedi, if Master Vizsla’s discourse is indeed applicable]

-

**PROLOGUE**

_If one reads this anthology of anecdotes entire, one must understand at first an adage of some importance, one that has defined the career of this Jedi Master and shall define those of many yet to come._

_“There is no power a Sith holds that a Jedi cannot choose to wield.”_

_What many could call a cynical view, and some would assume to be outright blasphemous- but I cannot press its truth enough. To understand this, one must know that the choice is pivotal. At every moment of tumult in a Jedi’s life are they called upon to make this choice- and it is the repeated, insistent making of this choice to not wield supreme might that proclaims us, in the end, MORE than any Dark Lord._

_In this way are my brothers and sisters from both the Jedi and Mandalore equal. It is the duty of our souls, before the ka’ra and the Force, to nurse and protect, such that we may never stand alone. ‘Mhi Solus Tome’, as the Mando’ade of old would say._

_However, my tale began, as did many in those days, with the Dark Lords of the Sith._

* * *

Shadowy shapes; phantasms that reeked only of Death.

Those were all Tarre saw, whenever he would open his eyes. The sight of ruin sickened him, and he would thus attempt to keep them shut.

His captors, however, were not so kind. _Nothing_ about his predicament could ever be called kind- it was as if kindness had been sucked out of the world when his _buir_ was killed by the _aruetii._

Oh, he had fought hard. Long and hard in his makeshift shelter, as had Tarre. Buir had struck down three of them- including one of those menacing, shadowy figures in cloaks of ashen black.

And then one of them had raised their hands, and Buir had risen into the air, no matter how hard he fought. His beskar’gam, which had protected him for so long against their blades of crimson fire, could do nothing as they slowly suffocated him and drove out his breath.

The worst matter was that Tarre knew precisely what had happened to him, in terrible clarity. He had _felt it._ They had choked him, sucked the life out of him with the force of their hatred.

They had then come for him. Every shot he’d fired at them until then had been deflected by those horrible crimson blades- all save the slug shots, which were halted in midair. Only Buir had managed to wound them with well-placed strikes of his staff, and shots to their blind spots.

Buir was gone. Gone forever. Buir, who had taught him of compassion, of strength and of a love for life, had been replaced by the silent void of death, whose emissaries tortured him day and night.

They had come for him. His blaster was useless. There was only the power of the ka’ra, the same power these _runil’a aruetii-_ these _Sith-_ corrupted and wielded as their own. He’d seen his chance, having learned their own power from them. As the nearest one approached, raising their blade, he had lashed out with his hate, his anger.

It worked in the same way. Power flooded out of him, and drew itself to his foe’s throat, concealed under armour though it may have been. With the power of his mind and nothing more, he _twisted._

That was only one, however. He’d done it so that he could say he’d died fighting like all Mandalorians. He’d done it so that Buir would be proud, and had waited for the deathblow.

It never came.

_“Woyunoks dzworokka midwan! Midwan Qyâsikjontû!”_

He’d learn later what it meant. “The little one has power; great power in the Force!”

This kept them from killing him. He almost wished they had killed him- but Mandalorians never gave up, and neither did he.

He’d been taken to a ship that made a horrible, droning noise. He’d felt colder than he ever had during the flight. They had landed, and temporarily blinded, he’d been brought to this… citadel.

There was power here, and history- neither of them pleasant. They would take him to the altar of this… temple… every day, and a mask would be forced upon him. The mask would have him relive every moment of Buir’s death, every day, for hours on end.

He found himself appreciating the mask. It would at least serve to distract him from his current situation.

They brought children- other children like him. They were brought in fours. He was handed a crude knife, and asked to slit the throat of one.

The first time, he refused. They were all four slain, dying in agony from some form of horrifying sorcery. Lightning, that was somehow unleashed from a dark figure’s fingertips. It was a far more cruel death than any he might have offered.

He did not refuse the second time, or any other time since.

He could not sleep beyond the bare minimum, for every time he did, a fingernail would be ripped away. He did not know what he had done, in whatever past life, to deserve this hell.

This continued until the light came- four lights, in fact.

One green, two blue and a fourth- brilliant gold.

It seemed the fabled _Jetii,_ enemies of the Dark Lords, had arrived.

* * *

There were three. Three Bright figures, just as his captors were Dark. He could _feel_ theme, _sense_ them, _understand_ what they were doing as they unleashed the same power he had, but with far greater focus and mastery.

He could sense the intent of all of them. Two were warriors. One of them, a Twi’lek with the Green Blade, had come to protect, to salvage what he could. The other, a Human with the two blue blades, had come to kill.

The third, a figure cloaked and hooded entirely in white- that one was shrouded in mystery. Tarre knew nothing of its intent, or indeed what species it was. He could see nothing of the face, though the hood didn’t cover it entirely. There was something of the _power,_ his own _power_ that obscured it.

The Dark Lord, the one who had unleashed lightning from before, snarled and swept away- undoubtedly to retreat, and perhaps to return again and strike at the intruders, taking them by surprise. He left those of lesser shadowy malice to die in his place.

Tarre wanted to warn them. The Sith torture mask on his face clamped his tongue to his jaw.

The lesser Sith, the acolyte, charged in in frenzied bloodlust, with cries that curdled blood in their own, guttural tongue. The Jedi did not charge, they did not cry.

The Twi’lek Master stepped back and unleashed a wave of telekinetic force, throwing away his opponents. The Human did nothing of the sort. She used the same force to stagger and halt her enemies, pulling them closer to her, awaiting the momentary drop in guard to scythe them apart with her swords of light.

Through the haze, Tarre observed closely. She’d catch the crimson swords of the Sith on her shorter blade, turn them away infinitesimally and thrust under their guard with the longer blade. Subtle, cold yet effective.

At every kill, she would throw her head back, revelling in the fight. Whatever the _Jetii_ said about unflappable, impassive calm, she did not seem to possess it. She was _enjoying_ it. In contrast, the Twi’lek was fighting with a sort of desperation, a forced calm, through which his hope, his wish to save as many as possible could be felt clear as the light of day.

Only the last, most mysterious, held the sort of calm he’d have expected from a _Jetii._ Preternaturally so. In fact, it extended beyond mere calm in the eye of battle. It was as if the darkness was rushing on towards an impenetrable wall.

Tarre caught a slight glimpse of the figure in white. It was more slender than the others, less powerfully built, it seemed. Yet it fought _cloaked,_ without once losing balance- and that spoke volumes.

It glided in a manner instead of walking, possessing the same sort of grace as the other two, but somehow more _eerie._ The others, for instance, graceful as they were, advanced only as they would in battle. This one seemed to be walking as it always did- the only way it could.

He wondered why he was drawn to this one- why he felt this most mysterious one was the most remarkable. Perhaps his _sight_ was telling him something he did not know.

The goldenrod blade was its weapon, and it spent most of its time switched off. Indeed, the fewest Sith acolytes and war-slaves came to this figure, as if they knew how it would end. Indeed, the golden blade struck down the fewest Sith- but that did not matter. What mattered was _how._

Buir had taught Tarre some Teräs Käsi, as well as how to wield a blade. He knew the standard cuts as well as any other.

An acolyte found itself unfortunately in the way of the white-cloaked Master. In an instant, the golden blade shot out, two-handed. The Sith brought its own crimson up to a crown guard to deflect, but the gold blade turned around within a half-second and made its way past the changed guard, into the other side of the Sith’s skull. It fell dead.

Every time the white-cloaked Master struck, an acolyte or slave fell. The engagements lasted barely two or three hits, while the other Masters traded thrusts and cuts time and again, combining their techniques with telekinetic blasts.

The Sith sensed weakness, having gathered that the Twi’lek was not at heart a warrior. They attacked him in threes. The Twi’lek forced a fit of calm upon himself. With great spatial awareness, he began to circle aggressively, deflecting one blow, then two- not enough. A third Sith was behind him.

The third Sith proceeded to die in a flash of gold. The thrown lightsaber circled back to the unknown master, who did not seem to spare a glance for his nearly-downed comrade.

“I- Thank you, Master Draukhaine, and- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll- never let my guard down like that again.”

No reply.

Interestingly, it was the human who came around. An acolyte had forced her upon the backfoot, from where she had cunningly pulled at her opponent’s feet with her power. The small stumble had allowed her to whip her blade around with a crooked strike and deflect the crimson saber to the ground, then impaling her adversary through the heart.

“There, there, K’laar. There, there. Even the best of us get flanked sometimes. You really should have expected it, taking a mission with the Grand Master. You must learn that not all children the Sith abduct can be saved; it is a harsh reality of war.”

 _Grand Master,_ Tarre heard. He was right. The white figure was, indeed, remarkable. He himself couldn't understand how this K'laar could be expected to hold off three at once- but then again, he didn't know how the other had known the precise moment he'd be in danger. 

He then realised that said Grand Master was coming towards him. The golden blade was extinguished and retreated somewhere deep within the folds of its cloak, and five long, spindly fingers were raised into the air.

The mask was torn from his face with as little gentleness as possible, leaving thinly bleeding scars where its cruel spikes had cut- but no matter. At least he was free of the damned thing.

 _“Vor entye, Jet’al- ack!”_ he tried to say in thanks, before he was lifted into the air and had his voice silenced, as if by some invisible hand staying his vocal cords.

It was not a choking grip, however, nor one that left him uncomfortable. He was only completely and utterly under the Jedi Master’s power, being held up for inspection- and that, somehow, was more frightening than any choking hold could be. He suspected he could break it, by letting his own power burst out- but that would be unwise.

He was turned around while floating, and before his shocked eyes, he saw Jedi’s long, spindly fingers… _unravelling._

What seemed fingers were in fact many tentacle-like proboscises wound together and given a passing solidity. The… _illusion_ under the hood lifted and Tarre found himself gazing into a long face, with parallel bony contours along the sides, and two baleful eyes that were black, utterly black.

A forked tongue flickered out for a moment, as if in concentration, and then another yellowish flicker was visible- far too quick for it to have been the same tongue.

“You have hatred within you, yet it speaks not of fire and ruin.” came a soft, rasping voice in Basic, echoing far too much to have come from only one throat. It was as if the speaker had learned the language, studied the words, yet spoke them without any attempt at conforming to replicate them phonetically.

The statement itself was not accusatory or curious. It was merely a statement of fact, and stated drily as such.

Tarre found he could speak.

“They killed my father, who loved me. What could I have but hatred for them?” he asked. “What else could you expect of me?”

He stared back into the two black eyes with all the power he could muster, ironwilled as any true Mandalorian.

The two other Jedi had begun to circle him.

“Are you sure this is the one you spoke of, Master Draukhaine? The one you saw in your visions?” said the human, before another spindly hand was raised, at which she was silent.

“Do you know, young one, that that is how the Sith induct one into their order? The Sith hate every last one of their own, and that is what gives them power. They grow submerged in their torment, until they cannot walk out. That is what makes one truly Sith.”

Tarre had indeed suspected something of the sort- it was why they hadn’t killed him. Every instinct told him that his torture was for the purpose of sadism alone, but history spoke otherwise. History spoke of how the Sith had manipulated his kind against the Jedi, and he had been in the clutches of the same order.

“If that is then the case, it must also be why they fail. If they hate each other, they cannot align as one against their true adversaries.”

"Logical analytical reasoning, even in this time. Most impressive." The hood was thrown off, and the ensuing sight almost made him want to recoil. It was a terrible sight, what any would see in their nightmares.

The flesh between the bony contours of Draukhaine’s face seemed to widen slightly, below and above each of his two eyes. As Tarre observed, the grey flesh parted seamlessly- or rather never parted at all. The contours were slits, with such fine lines that they would have seemed part of the flesh. Instead, they were eyelids.

Six cold, black voids, perfectly parallel and aligned in three rows, now stared at Tarre. A creeping terror had seized his heart. He could only maintain eye-contact with one pair of eyes. Who knew what the other two pairs were looking at?

“You have killed before, _Tarre Vizsla._ The miasma of death clings to your eyes. They have become cold- just as the ones you see before you.”

He persuaded himself not to ask of how this Draukhaine had known his name, or how he had learned this much from looking into his eyes. Those were questions for later.

“The Sith forced me to kill. They brought children to me, in fours. If I did not kill one, all of them would be tortured to death. I refused the first time.”

“And never since.” finished Grand Master Draukhaine. “Your strength of will is admirable- just as that of a Sith. It is a decision I would have made, to slay the weakest, most emaciated-looking of four to save three- that is, if I did not know of the objective. That, young one, is how you would have become Sith.”

Tarre forced down a wave of fury at the implications. Who was this- this alien- to suggest that what he had done was wrong? How could saving three from an agonising death and grating a merciful one to a fourth have turned him into a Sith?

“You mean to say that I should have done nothing? Should have stayed where I was, and let them all be killed by lightning?”

“If it would have meant your defiance, the victory of your will against the Sith, then yes. I suggest you should have let them die.”

“With all due respect, Master Draukhaine, I cannot conscionably-“

“ _Silence,_ K’laar. You are yet young. A healer, not a warrior as I suspect young Vizsla here will become. And indeed not an assassin, a murderer of murderers as I have had to become. Look around you. Would you truly suspect any hope for these children brought in to be killed? Their survival would mean a fate worse than any cruel death.”

The Twi’lek Master K’laar bowed his head and stepped back, though Tarre could tell he was releasing his emotions into the Force.

“As for you, Tarre Vizsla- if saving those with no hope would mean your fall- if saving those insignificant would mean darkness for one as significant as you- it would be exceedingly unwise. It is easier to fall through hatred than it is through guilt. Look at you- even now, you are filled with hate. You are driven to kill these Sith- _shabuirse-_ if that is the correct word- but you have also hatred for yourself. Hatred arisen from having to kill. If you had let them die instead of your pointless gesture, you would have had only guilt.

Guilt could have driven you to prevent, not to kill. Guilt could have allowed you to judge these Sith as they thought to judge innocents. You could have not only killed them, but _erased_ them, while not falling to Darkness yourself.”

It made a twisted amount of sense. If he had let the Sith kill these children, he’d have been their enemy forever. He would have resented his lack of strength at that one moment so that he would never lack for strength later, repelling the lure of darkness.

But they were just _children._

And he said _“No._ My Buir taught me to never abandon anybody, no matter how ‘weak’ or how ‘hopeless’. I refuse to see people as assets. If I am to be significant, I choose to be in this way. As a protector, not a conqueror. If that means I have fallen- well, what stops you from killing me now?”

Draukhaine surprised him.

“And that is what I find admirable. That you have _not_ fallen. I said you have hatred, but it speaks not of ruin and death. No, it is a cold flame, one that shall drive you to heights instead of plunging you to depths. You have that strength- the strength to know what is right, and to be convinced in that strength.”

Tarre did not trust his words in the least- but he now had an avenue of questioning. He used it.

“What tells you whether or not I’ve ‘fallen’? What tells you whether or not there is hope for the children trapped in here? And what lets _you_ decide what is right and what is wrong.”

“The will of the Force.” came the answer.

“The Force?”

“The power you wield, just the same as we do. The same power the Sith have corrupted for their own use. And you wield great power indeed. I said you have killed before. I meant that you have killed with the Force. When, if I might ask?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Your life, for one- and perhaps the lives of many others.” came the cold reply yet again.

“Fine. I killed one these _shabuir dar’jetii._ An acolyte, I think. I saw what they did to _Buir._ I repaid the favour.”

He was dropped to the ground, somehow finding the strength to land on his feet. The Grand Master walked up to him, and he recoiled instinctually when a few tentacles were extended in his direction.

However, they did not advance. They were held in place, as if in offering.

“You have passed every test, and have had the courage to be honest to me after such terrible events. That displays strength greater than any Sith’s.”

Tarre stayed quiet.

“Master Draukhaine?” began the human master. “How could you tell? The- boy seems dangerous to me! He claims to have killed a Sith with a Force Choke, which he learned from just watching the others do it-“

“He would never have turned to Darkness. He will never turn to Darkness. At last, I see one with the strength to both end lives and spare them. The will to both protect and conquer. He will be significant to the Galaxy as a whole- that much I can see. I take it upon myself to foster such talent, as should you, Nur.” said the rasping voice, four eyes shutting, with only the two left, turned away for Tarre’s benefit.

“An… offer? What does it constitute- and why make it now? I thought you _Jetii_ were the enemies of those who killed in anger.”

“I have killed in anger.” said Draukhaine, very calmly. Tarre had no problem in believing it. “Time and again. Anger is sometimes necessary to muster the strength to kill- until you become used to it. I have done so in order to ensure that none else from this order must need to. As Jedi, we are protectors- sometimes, it is necessary to kill, in order to protect.”

“Grandmaster!” came a shout, and the door to the crypt opened. A Nikto entered, looking harried, along with a Mirialan.

“We must leave, this very instant! A small army of Sith is coming this way- Six Sith Masters, in all! They’ve come-“

“They have come for the Jedi Grandmaster’s head.” said Draukhaine, utterly unflappable.

“Pardon me, Master, but if you’d known, then- why bring just five? We cannot possibly hold them back. With all due respect, not even you, I think, have the strength to-“

“You shall learn, in good time. Suffice to say there was a very good reason behind my choice to bring only four companions in a mission to the heart of Dromund Kaas, and that the Sith have acted precisely as I expected them to. They never could refuse the bait when I am the bait, could they?”

Tarre’s mind was reeling. If Draukhaine had planned for this, well and good, but- what about the other masters he put in harm’s way? Who was going to protect them?

He looked at Master K’laar, the healer- one who had come solely out of compassion, to save as many as he could. Master Nur, the Guardian, who had come out of a duty to protect him. Somehow, he doubted the cold-blooded Draukhaine, who seemed to see all as assets, could be trusted to lead them.

Should he wonder what it told about him, that Draukhaine had been the one to vouch for him, and that he worried about the other four, who looked at him in suspicion?

He filed the question away for later. There was a battle at hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> GLOSSARY
> 
> Haat Mando’ade- True Mandalorians
> 
> Jetii- Jedi 
> 
> Mand'alor- 'Mandalore', King of the Mandalorian people
> 
> Mhi Solus Tome- Together, we are one
> 
> Buir- Parent; genderless
> 
> Aruetii- Foreigner/enemy (the fact that the word for foreigner and enemy are the same thing is very telling of Mandalorian culture) 
> 
> Beskar'gam- Beskar Armour
> 
> Woyunoks dzworokka midwan! Midwan Qyâsikjontû! (Sith): The little one has power! He's strong in the Force!
> 
> Teräs Käsi- Historical Mandalorian Martial Art 
> 
> Shabuir(se)- Bastard(s)
> 
> Dar'jetii- Antithesis of Jedi, 'Not-Jedi' (Could mean Dark Jedi or Sith)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Draukhaine looks somewhat like [ this](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Funpublished-villains.fandom.com%2Fwiki%2FTor_Valum&psig=AOvVaw0MkwVj8O9qajJKDQwEaLK4&ust=1614863716178000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCJinpKaalO8CFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD). 
> 
> Apparently Colin Trevorrow came up with the idea, which I have quite blatantly filched. Now, now, don't accuse me of being Lovecraftist against aliens. He's a complex character with complex motivations, and does not in fact just scream 'Evil Jedi Master'. 
> 
> I normally have a far higher opinion of the Jedi Order than most, particularly what it was in the Old Republic. Therefore, if you're wondering just why they let a war-obsessed sociopath like Draukhaine become Grandmaster, it is for a very specific reason, one that has to do with the fall of the Old Republic in the first place, as well as why the Jedi changed to becoming comparative non-interventionists as we see in the prequels.


End file.
